Out of the Blue (2 page)

MEGAN STUCK HER PENCIL
into the hole in her ruler and set the ruler spinning. Today was what Mr. Mostyn called “prewriting.” He made them write a story a week, and Monday mornings were prewriting. One month he taught them “webbing,” which was putting your ideas in little blobs all over the page and joining them up with lines like a spider web. Another month it was “mapping,” which was drawing a road and then arranging your ideas along it. And then there was “brainstorming,” which was blurting your ideas out as fast as you could. Megan quite liked prewriting. It was like daydreaming and you didn't have to hand in anything at the end. But this time her mind kept running away from webs and roads, like Bumper avoiding his leash when it was time to go home from the park.

What
was
up with Mum and Dad? It had to be the piece of paper they were looking at, that night on the couch. That was the evening when things had started to go weird. Megan pulled her pencil out of her ruler and wrote “Clues” at the top of her prewriting paper.

1. Mum's remark about things not working out.

2. Dad's remark about everything being a risk.

3. One piece of paper, regular size, white.

4. Change of holiday plans.

She drew a blob around 3. This was the one to pursue. She drew a curving line from the blob to the middle of the page and wrote in capital letters, “FIND IT.” She shaded the letters into 3-D while she thought. When? Late at night when everyone was asleep? Too corny. Her stomach rumbled. Of course! Lunch hour. Perfect. She and Betsy always took their lunches to school, but she could make it home and back, and still have time to search if she ran fast. Dad was having a downtown day, so he wouldn't be there. Today was the day.
She scribbled a note.

Dear Erin, Can't have lunch. Going home. Don't mention it if you see Betsy.

She folded the scrap of paper and pushed it across the aisle with her foot. Erin didn't notice. Her head was bent over her paper and she was writing like mad. Megan tried staring at her.
My eyes are boring into your brain.
No response. Erin was really into prewriting. Discreet cough. Erin didn't budge. Megan sliced off a bit of eraser with her fingernail and pinged it at Erin's head with her ruler. Success. Erin looked up indignantly. Megan pointed at the floor. Erin caught on. Message received.

Bumper thought that coming home for lunch was the best idea that Megan had ever had. He woofed and danced around and told Megan, in dog language, that she was the kindest, most brilliant, beautiful and scintillating creature in the known universe, and that he loved her with every fiber of his being. He took some of it back when he realized that he was not going for a walk or getting dinner.

It was funny being in the house alone with just Bumper. Megan felt a bit like a burglar, a nervous burglar. She jumped when the refrigerator turned off with a clunk. Okay. A plan. A piece of paper, with typing or printing on it, folded in three. The coffee table was probably too obvious, but sometimes Holmes had success with the obvious. Not this time. Magazines, flyers, the notice about Brownie camp. Try Mum's desk in the kitchen.

She pulled open the file drawer. Neatly labeled colored files. “Math 115,” “Medical,” “Megan,” “Mortgage.” There were far too many. The fattest bunch of papers caught her eye. “To File.” She squeezed it out and opened it on the kitchen table. She began to sort through it. Shiny paper, wrong size, colored. She piled up the possibles. Pool schedule, photocopy of a recipe for eggnog cookies, application form for a student loan, a brochure with a picture of a big old-fashioned sailing ship on it — “Tall ships, the experience of a lifetime.”

She started to slide it back into the file. Wait a minute. On the back was a photo of a bunch of kids hanging off the rigging of the ship. “For young people aged 12-16. Ply the seas on a replica tall ship, the educational experience of a lifetime. . . . Learn skills of seamanship, self-reliance, and cooperation. . . . July 7-28.” Hang on. Who was going to turn twelve in a couple of weeks, on Good Friday? Who couldn't make plans for July?

She scanned the brochure again. “Some sailing experience desirable.” Who had taken beginning sailing last summer with her cousin John? Megan felt excitement climbing up her throat. “See enclosed form.” She looked carefully through the piles of paper. Gone. They had already mailed it in. They were going to send
her
!

Megan remembered when Emily, her baby-sitter, had gone to England with a choir in grade eleven. Mum said what a great opportunity it was, and how she hoped Megan and Betsy would do a lot of traveling. Three weeks! This very summer! Megan looked more closely at the picture of the kids on the rigging.
Of course
Mum would think it was a risk. But Dad had thought she could handle it. And she could. She pictured herself up in the crow's nest, waving to everyone. Mum and Dad were
the best.

It must be pretty expensive, though. How could they afford it? Since Mum had quit her job to go to school, she and Dad were always talking about how the mortgage took all their money. Oh, who knows? Megan pirouetted around the kitchen until Bumper barked himself silly and jumped on her. Maybe they had secretly won the lottery. Secret money, secret plans, “the secret of the mysterious summer.”

Did you get to sleep in a hammock? She needed to know more about old ships. Was there time to get to the library before one o'clock? She glanced up at the kitchen clock. No way. There was hardly time to get back to school. She gave the brochure one last look, slid the file back into the drawer, grabbed an orange, and gave Bumper two biscuits and a big noisy kiss on the nose. Life was perfect. Life was megaperfect.

Somehow, for the next eleven days, everyone and everything agreed in the megaperfection of life. Dad finished off a big annual report and decided he could take the entire Easter weekend off, four whole days in a row, so they could all go to the island, and Mum promised not to take any homework with her. One day, while fooling around on the mats in gym class, Megan discovered that she could do a perfect front flip. Bumper's flea spray finally kicked in and he stopped scratching. Princess Mayonnaise started a new adventure, with the Easter Bunny, and Betsy named the leader of all the bunnies “Queen Megan.” Megan recognized this for the high compliment it was. The weather was warm and soft, and the cherry blossoms drifted into the gutters, like pink snow.

Megan carried the secret of her trip around inside her like a small wrapped present. About a week before her birthday she was surprised to find out that Betsy seemed to know, too. It began with a classic Betsy line while they were getting dressed.

“I know something you don't know.”

They had told Betsy. A whole week ahead? That was dangerous. Used to be that Betsy couldn't keep a secret for ten minutes. She stared at Betsy, who was putting on her tights. Maybe Betsy was growing up. Maybe one day she would put her tights on one leg at a time, like a normal person, instead of struggling with both legs at once. The thought of Betsy growing up made Megan feel soft and sad and happy. She smiled.

This made Betsy mad. “Hey! Don't you get it? I know something you don't know.”

Megan snapped to attention. She was forgetting her lines. “No way.”

“Yes way.”

“No way.”

“Yes way, yes way, yes way.”

Betsy would grow old and grey, she would die of starvation, she would wear out her vocal cords, before she would give up the last word. Megan retreated, “Okay, what is it?”

“Not telling.”

Well, obviously. “Is it something to do with my birthday?”

Betsy's face fell. “You guessed.”

“It's okay. I didn't guess what. I mean, it's not that hard to guess that it's about a present, but you still know what it is and I don't. Do I get any hints?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Is it bigger than a bread box, smaller than a house?”

Betsy smiled a smile of deep satisfaction. “Nope.”

“Would somebody please feed that dog. He's scratching the door down.” Dad's voice boomed out of the bathroom.

“I'll go,” said Betsy.

On her birthday Megan opened her eyes to sunlight shining through the prism in her window. The prism had been a birthday present from Erin, opened one day early. It had rainbows hidden inside it. She stretched her feet down to the end of the bed. Was twelve taller? Would she be the youngest person on the ship? Of course, she wouldn't really have to tell them her age. If they were all strangers, she could be whoever she wanted. She had already pretty well for sure decided that she would say her name was “Meg.” “Meg” sounded like a popular person who would never get seasick or homesick. Meg would be good with knots. In fact, Meg sounded a bit like a pirate.

Mr. Mostyn had once read them something about women pirates from long ago. Megan flipped over on her stomach and did a little brainstorming. Meg the pirate was injured in the leg by a cutlass. Cutlass? Was that right? Anyway, she got gangrene in the wound and she had to have the leg amputated, with only a slug of rum for anesthetic. But she was incredibly brave and she got a wooden leg, and from then on she was known as “Peg-Leg Meg.”

Waffle-making sounds from downstairs interrupted her brainstorm. She jumped out of bed into her slippers. Forget waiting. Birthday, here I come.

When she came into the kitchen, Megan was surprised to see a pile of presents by her plate and a long skinny wrapped thing leaning against the refrigerator. Presents and a trip?

“So,” said Mum, kissing her, “how does it feel to be twelve?”

Megan did a fast check of her feelings. “Good,” she answered, “really cool.” She sat down at her place and rearranged the packages. There it was — the envelope. She would save it for last.

“Waffles first, or presents?” asked Mum.

“Waffles, please,” said Megan.

“Oof,” Betsy exploded.

“Twelve-year-olds enjoy delayed gratification,” said Dad. “I'm sure I read that in a magazine.”

Megan had her first waffle with syrup and her second with jam, and couldn't decide which was better. And then it was time.

She reached out for the long thin package. “To Megan, love Daddy.”

“Are you going to open your card first?” said Dad.

He was so cute. “No,” said Megan, “I don't like that delayed doomathiggy.” She ripped open the top of the package and pulled out a canoe paddle. Beautiful shiny blond wood. Carved into the top was a small red flower and her initials.

“My own paddle,” she said. “And the flower matches the red canoe.” She held it up to her cheek. The wood felt like velvet.

“Dad did the carving himself,” said Mum.

Megan leaned across the table and kissed Dad on his sandpapery cheek. She leaned the paddle against the table so she could reach out and touch it.

“Open mine, open mine,” said Betsy.

Betsy liked to use lots of tape in wrapping. Megan finally had to cut open the package with scissors. It was a jewelry-making kit, with glass beads and hardware for a necklace, a bracelet, and two pairs of earrings. It was great, except that the earrings were for pierced ears. Probably Betsy hadn't noticed. “Thanks, Bets. That's a great present. I'll take it to the island.”

“Did you see what kind of earrings they are?” asked Betsy, looking as though she were going to burst.

“Betsy,” said Mum warningly.

What was going on?

“Here,” said Mum, pushing a soft package at her. It had a very sweaterlike feel.

It
was
a sweater, dark bluish green and as soft as almost not there. Megan put it on over her pajamas. “I love it.”

She took a bite of cold waffle.

“Come on” said Betsy, pushing the envelope toward her.

Megan licked the syrup off her knife and used it to slit the envelope. A small plastic bag and a heavy paper certificate fell out. “Redeemable for ear piercing. LaBeaute Nails and Esthetics Salon.” Megan emptied the small bag into her hand. A pair of stud earrings, gold with tiny pearls.

“I thought I wasn't allowed to have my ears pierced until I was fourteen.”

“The expert persuaded us that we were being hopelessly old-fashioned,” said Mum pointing at Betsy.

“That's why the jewelry kit has earrings for pierced ears.” Betsy grinned.

“We can make an appointment for you for next week,” said Mum, “as soon as we get back from the island. But Dad will have to take you. I can't watch. Too squeamish. Or maybe you would like to go with Erin….

Megan nodded and looked at the table. Where was the other envelope? Then it hit her. There was no other envelope. These were her presents. These were her great, beautiful presents. There were no tall ships. She had made it up. It was so real and now . . . She tried to keep her face under control, but the tears were welling up.

She pushed back her chair. “Excuse me, bathroom.”

She ran upstairs to the bathroom, turned on the tap, hard, and pushed her face into a towel and sobbed. She had been so dumb. How could she have thought . . . They weren't one of those rich families like Emily's. But she couldn't
act
disappointed. She would die if anyone ever found out what she had thought.

She wiped her eyes and looked in the mirror, holding her hair back from her ears, trying to get excited about earrings. It didn't work. It was like somebody had stolen her trip, and that was totally stupid. Disappointment stuck in her throat like a piece of dry waffle. What to do? She splashed cold water on her face. She had to forget it. And until she could forget it, she had to fake it like mad.

THEY TOOK THE FERRY
to the island that evening. It was dark by the time they arrived, but a bright full moon had risen. They followed their moon shadows up the road. Betsy got out her flashlight anyway so that she could light her mouth from the inside and make her puffed-out cheeks glow pink. Mum pulled the little wagon they used for carrying stuff from the ferry. Megan balanced her new paddle across her shoulders, making a T shadow on the road. And everyone carefully ignored the fact that Dad was carrying a big white bakery box. A deer leaped out of the ditch and ran across the road ahead of them. Bumper went tearing off after it. A history of total failure in deer chasing did not discourage him. He ambled back a few minutes later. “Deer? I didn't notice any deer.”

As soon as they arrived at the cottage Mum lit the kerosene lamp that stood on the big kitchen table. The blue-and-yellow oilcloth glowed. Dad knelt down to the fireplace. “Looks like Howie's been here,” he said. “Another architectural masterpiece.”

One of the rules of the cottage was that when you left, you made up a fire for the next people. You could always tell when Uncle Howie had been there, because he laid perfect fires, symmetrical kindling like a tepee around a nest of crumpled newspaper and wood shavings, bigger logs ready on the hearth.

“It's almost a shame to burn it up,” said Dad, “but I'll force myself.” He held a match to a piece of newspaper, and a flame ran along its edge, disappeared for a second, and then sprang up from the kindling. He blew on the flames gently and then hung a kettle of water over the fire.

Mum flipped open the big scrapbook that was sitting on the table. “Yes, Howie was over last weekend. He patched the canoe. He's going to bring some shakes over to fix the roof when they come in July.”

Megan pulled her gaze away from the fire. If she wasn't going on the tall ship, what was all that business about changing holidays? “I still don't get it. How come we're not coming in July?”

“Tell you later,” said Mum. “Let's get dinner happening.”

Megan sat down at the table and looked in the scrapbook to catch up since their last visit. Uncle Josh had been over in February and it had been so cold he'd gone to bed with a plastic bleach bottle full of hot water. There had been a big storm in March. Mr. Thompson, their neighbor on the island, had come over to check things out. Uncle Josh and his friend Mark had visited later that month and they'd gone oystering. They had eaten the oysters raw. Yuck.

Megan pulled a pencil out of her pack and began their entry. “April 10. Hungerfords. Here for the Easter weekend. Deer on Rackham Road. Full moon.” Then she slid the scrapbook back into the bookcase, next to all the others, a whole shelf of scrapbooks going right back to when Gram and Pop bought the cabin. On rainy days Megan liked to sit on the saggy couch and read them over. Gram and Pop had died before she was born, but she felt as though she knew them. Pop had stiff, tidy writing, and he liked to record rainfall and wind and the date of the first tomatoes. Gram scrawled, wrote around the edges of the pages, and drew sketches of plants and animals and people. The first entry in the first book, now dog-eared and faded, was signed, “Karl, Trudi, Joshua, Marie, and Snicklefritz.” Snicklefritz was Mum before she was born.

So many voices on the pages — kids' names in crayon; poems in the messy writing of some boyfriend of Aunt Marie's before she married Howie; fancy pages for a year or two when Uncle Josh took up calligraphy; thank-you notes from friends who wrote, “This is paradise!”; a months-long discussion of the location for a new outhouse; dates of babies being born and the goldenrod coming into bloom; plans for a monkey puzzle tree at the top of the driveway; records of the first snowfall of the winter and the last swim of the summer.

Sometimes the older scrapbooks made Megan sad. One of the entries, in Pop's neat black handwriting, said that Gram was “bearing her illness with dignity and grace.” It was a good kind of sad.

“Marshmallows!” said Betsy, throwing a bag into the air.

“Yup,” said Mum, unwrapping a package of wieners. “Fireplace food tonight.”

They ate wieners and marshmallows, and then Dad made toast on a stick. It tasted so good with butter and honey that they used up a whole loaf of bread. Mum threw her toasting stick into the fire. “My kind of meal. Burn the dishes.”

Betsy and Dad disappeared into the kitchen.

Mum winked at Megan and said in a loud, theatrical voice. “So — seasonable weather we're having these days, eh?”

Sounds of match lighting and giggling emerged from the kitchen.

“Yup,” said Megan, “pretty normal, pretty average.”

“You can say that again,” said Mum, “temperatures just about . . .”

Betsy came around the corner with the cake, singing, “Happy birthday to you. . . .” The light from the candles lit her face from below and she looked like an angel on a Christmas card. They finished singing “Happy Birthday to You,” and then Betsy sang the you-belong-in-a-zoo version, and then Dad sang his special birthday song, in his deepest, most tragic voice. He accompanied himself by banging a log of wood on the hearth.

“Hap-py birth-day (thunk),
Hap-py birth-day (thunk),
People are dying everywhere,
Sorrow and sighing fill the air (thunk),
Hap-py birth-day (thunk).”

“You're a bunch of sickoids,” said Mum. “Give Megan a chance to wish and blow out the candles before they burn down.”

A wish. Megan closed her eyes. She had been thinking about this wish, but now it was hard to put into words. It had to do with things not getting wrecked and used up before she could grow up and see them. Pandas and ozone and . . .

“Hurry
up”
said Betsy.

Megan said it loud and clear in her head. “I wish that things won't be spoiled.” She blew out the candles in one swoosh.

“What did you wish?” asked Betsy, ever hopeful that sometime, someone would forget about the secrecy of birthday wishes.

“Not telling.”

After cake everyone got the yawns. Megan took the flashlight and stumbled to the outhouse. By the time she got back, Mum had spread out the sleeping bags on the bunk beds. Betsy was already asleep. Megan climbed into her top bunk. She tried to stay afloat, to take out her disappointment and look at it, but she was too heavy with sleep. She sank softly under the surface.